


Infinite Space

by Polly_Lynn



Category: Castle
Genre: Angst, F/M, Insomnia, Romance, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-27
Updated: 2015-11-27
Packaged: 2018-05-03 17:06:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,814
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5299391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Polly_Lynn/pseuds/Polly_Lynn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"It's eerie. Blue flickering over the wall behind his desk. Lingering on the fencing mask balanced on the hilt of tip-down foil. The low hum of a voice floating across the floor to her. Resolving into her own."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Infinite Space

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: One-shot, post-Sleeper (7 x 20).

 

 

O God, I could be bounded in a nutshell

and count myself a king of infinite space,

were it not that I have bad dreams

— _Hamlet,_ Act II, Scene ii

* * *

 

She wakes to the pounding of her head. The base of her skull painful enough that it's tender to the touch. And there's an unbelievable ache behind one eye.

_Champagne_

It's her first thought. That they must've overdone it. But the argument doesn't hold. She runs her tongue over her teeth and there's none of the fuzzy, leftover tartness that comes of the ill-advised surrender to _one more glass._

White wine. They'd shared a modest glass wound around one another on the bed. Clothed and unclothed. Over the covers and under. Every kiss soft, gentle almost to the point of somber. Hardly any words between them for the longest time, too. Disjointed now-and-again whispers.

_Missed you_

_Love you_

_Sorry. So sorry_

They'd taken care with each other, though there'd been nothing tentative in it. Far from it, he'd curved a palm behind her neck and held her fast. Looked into her eyes as they'd moved together.

She'd clung to him afterward. And he to her. Almost wordless again, from more than exhaustion. Far more than that, though he'd drifted off before her, his body half draped over her, and his chin tucked into the crook of her shoulder.

She'd listened. Pressed her palm to his back and reveled in feeling of his breath growing long and deep. Drawing satisfaction and rest for herself out of the simple fact of his sleep.

Her head throbs again. Her throat feels thick and she reaches for him. Turns herself weakly and splays her hands over the cool, empty expanse where he should be.

* * *

 

It's eerie. Blue flickering over the wall behind his desk. Lingering on the fencing mask balanced on the hilt of tip-down foil. The low hum of a voice floating across the floor to her. Resolving into her own.

_Please, if you have any information or know anything about the disappearance of Richard Castle, I need your help._

"Don't." She calls out, the weakness of her own voice startling her. Everything feels wrong. With her body. With this dead-of-night scenario.

"I woke you." He's out of the chair like a shot. Coming for her, but she's stumbling toward him and they crash together. "Kate, I'm sorry, I hoped you . . ."

"Don't," she says again, her fingers digging into her shoulders. Her nails, hard enough to break skin.

"I won't." He holds her gently, palms at her back, but his arms held carefully away, like he knows she hurts. "Whatever it is. I won't."

"That." She grabs a fistful of his shirt and turns him. Turns both their bodies as she points an accusing finger toward the still-open laptop. The still-playing video. A compilation of clips from those two awful months. "Why are you . . ." She breaks off, her hand shading her eyes as a flare of particularly bright light bounces off the white brick, a sudden painful reminder that her head hurts. Everything hurts and it shouldn't. "Why do I . . ." She looks up at him, hot tears scalding her cheeks. It's an answer to the question, but she asks anyway. She asks him. "Why do I feel so bad?"

"You were . . . crying." He stumbles over the word. Chokes on it, his voice as weak as her own now. "You were crying in your sleep."

* * *

 

"I don't remember," she says as she lets him settle her in the chair.

"You wouldn't . . ." He stalls, clutching a blanket tight in the act of draping it over her. "I couldn't wake you."

"Castle." She tugs at the blanket. Makes the decision to play along. To let him fuss a little, even though it's not her thing. "Cold."

"Sorry." He rouses himself. Snaps the blanket and lets it settle. "Sorry."

"It was just a dream." She catches his hand as he leans over to tuck the blanket in around her knees. Tries to look like she doesn't ache all over. "I'm fine."

"You weren't then." He scrubs a hand over his mouth like he can take the words back that way. Their eyes meet and skate away in opposite directions. "You're not fine now, are you?" His fingertips land beneath her jaw just long enough to tilt her face up.

"Headache." She raises a hand to her cheek, wincing at the salt-tight skin. Wincing at everything. "Ugly cry." She tries to smile. "Makes sense."

He glides back into the bedroom without a word. Comes back with a tumbler of water and aspirin. The whole bottle, though he can only coax her swallow one.

"Beckett," he chides, "I can see the vein throbbing in your temple."

"Stomach." She breathes through her nose, trying to keep even the sip of water down. Trying not to think about the acrid taste on her tongue. "Upset."

"Upset." It has too many layers for an echo. For something so thin. Worry. Apology. Anger. Fear and Frustration. "It was supposed to be better." He sinks on to the arm of the chair, looming above her. Stroking her hair softly, his fingers hardly a whisper.

"It _is_ better," she murmurs. His touch is heaven. Careful and loving. "Knowing is better." Her eyes flick open as realization strikes. It might not be better. And he was counting on it. He'd _so_ been counting on it. "It's better, isn't it?"

"It's better." He lets his finger tips drift down from her scalp to just feather her eyes closed again. He slides himself into the chair with her, gathering her up gently to rest her body against his. He takes a breath and hesitates, a prelude to something half-formed and necessary. "I thought knowing would make it _all_ better, though. But . . ."

"But I was crying in my sleep." She finishes for him. Takes mercy on him and tips a wan smile upward. "It's normal, though, right?"

She's not sure. When she says it out loud, she realizes she's not sure at all. What's normal and what's not, given what they do. Given what they've been through.

"Normal." He sounds like he's trying the word out, too. Like he doesn't know any more than she does. "You don't . . ." He lifts a hand in the general direction of the desk. In the general direction of the laptop and that awful video. "You don't look like you." He sweeps the hair back from her cheek, as if he's making sure. "In any of them. You don't _sound_ like you."

"Martha," she says, the memory striking her, new and strange. "She dressed me. Chased away make-up artists when they wanted to . . . fix me up. Dark circles . . ." She trails off, struck by how odd her voice sounds again. Like she's telling the story of someone else, far and away. "She coached me. I never wanted . . . I had to . . . but it was . . . Martha got me through."

"Mother. It figures." He wants to laugh. She can feel the ripple of it in his chest before it sticks there. A frustrated sob. "I didn't even know until they had you," he says slowly, like it's still awful, and it must be. It must have been. Another trauma they haven't even talked about, and it's hard to have him go on. He does, though. "Neiman and Tyson. Kate, I didn't even _know_ that you'd done that for me until then, and I . . ." His jaw works hard enough that she hears his teeth grind. "There wasn't any time to deal with it . . . There's never any time." He drops his forehead to hers. "It's always the next thing and the next and . . ."

He falls silent. Overwhelmed and ashamed and she doesn't know what else. She has no idea what else he's going through and she's going through and _they're_ going through, because he's right. There's never any time.

"Did it help?" She's not even sure what she's asking. The words rise up. The come of their own volition. "Seeing Burke. Not just . . . remembering. Did it . . . help?" He goes stiff. She feels him retreating and holds on."Did it, Castle?"

"It . . ." He's defensive. A little angry with her. With the ambush and with himself for thinking of it that way maybe. . "I wasn't looking at it for that."

She waits him out. Slides her hand under his sleeve to find skin. To soothe the half moon marks of her own fingernails.

"I might have, if I . . ." He sighs. Concedes. "It could, but I don't . . . I'm not there." He kisses her temple. "I feel like I just need you. Us." He's reaching again. Casting about in all the dark places they've been. Too many in just the last few months. "Time. I just want time with you. To figure it out and make it up to you."

"Castle, there's nothing to make. . ." She tries to twist toward him. Wants to see his face, even in this lightless hour, but he holds her fast.

"The beach," he says dreamily. "I want our beach honeymoon."

That stills her. The sudden softness in him. In his voice and the ease of his arms around her. The way they come to rest together, not holding tight any more because they don't have to.

"Beach honeymoon," she repeats, and it's like honey on her tongue. Like rest. "We can do that."

"No," he says glumly. "You took all your vacation . . ."

He jerks his chin toward the desk. Toward the awful blue flicker on the wall and the thin thread of her voice, pleading.

"Can too."

She pushes herself half up. Struggles her way out of the warm tangle of blankets and strides over to the desk, resolute. She brings her finger down hard on the track pad, silencing herself. Flicking the tab away into nothing. She tucks the laptop under her arm, deftly plucking cords and setting them aside as she makes her way back to him.

She falls back into the chair, letting him catch her. Letting him grumble and unwind the blankets from around his own thighs to tuck them both back under. She's ready by the time he settles. Warm and tired, but nowhere near sleep. Not without him, and she knows the signs. Knows the drum of his fingertips and the way he shifts that it'll be hours for him yet.

"Ready?"

"For what?"

She doesn't answer. She drags her finger over the track pad and taps. Worms her way closer and shifts the screen so they both can see as the camera sweeps its lazy way along the white line where the waves pound the sand, keeping time with the rapid-fire hand drums.

"To come to the beach with me."

"So ready," he says, smiling against her cheek as she hums along with the cheesy opening song. With Annette Funicello and Frankie Avalon, on the road without a care in the world. "So, _so_ ready."

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Originally, I was going to add this as a chapter Somnolescent, but it doesn't quite fit with the rest of that. Thanks for reading.


End file.
